You Must Be Sisters (6 page)

‘Don’t they look young and callow,’ said Laura.

‘You’re very dismissive about everything,’ said Claire. Appreciate it! she wanted to shout.

She didn’t shout it, but as they left the hall she said: ‘You’re jolly lucky, you know.’

‘Am I? You mean, it’s all more fun than your flat? What would Yvonne be doing now?’

‘Creeping into the kitchen and rustling through the Shortcake Fingers.’

‘And Nikki?’

‘Sticking on her eyelashes and dreaming about the strong brown thighs of her lover, and how he said her scent was as fresh as a meadow in spring.’

‘Oh yes, they’re all copywriters, aren’t they.’

Nikki was a receptionist with J. Walter Thompson and bedded down with a succession of young executives known to Claire
only
by name and (in a whisper, because Yvonne disapproved) performance.

‘Yes, I must say, it’s nice to be here,’ said Claire.

‘Despite the rain.’ They had decided to explore Bristol by car and were now driving across the Downs. They were alone, as Mike had left to do some work. ‘I can see, looking at Mike, that you do lots of discussing and arguing. Things of the spirit.’

‘Hmm. Sometimes bodies do seem to get in the way.’

At last Laura told her the episodes, John first, then Mike. When Claire had finished laughing she said: ‘Yes, I could see that Mike fancied you.’

‘What gave you that idea?’

‘By the way he kept avoiding your eye, yet couldn’t help himself looking whenever you shifted in your seat or scratched your leg. Everything you did, he noticed.’

‘The thing is, I don’t fancy him. He’s too nice.’ Too suitable, she thought.

‘Idiot!’ Claire laughed. She looked through the windscreen at the tall terraces, smudgy in the rain. People were always fancying Laura. She, Claire, had got used to it now. Laura’s hair, streaked with yellow, could easily be described as tumbling round her face. Her own hair, brown throughout, just hung. And there was an aliveness about Laura, a quickness in her movements, a grace, that arrested the eye. Often when she left a room there would be a pause, almost a sigh, amongst those that remained. Anyway, she had a straight nose and freckles, two things that Claire had always lacked and would always lack. Laura had simply been the prettiest, though when they were children, of course, they’d never known it. The turning point had come when she had been thirteen and some parental friend, forgotten but for this one dreadful remark, had said to their mother: ‘Claire’s got such a
nice
face, but of course Laura’s the beauty.’ Both Claire and Laura, needless to say, had pretended they hadn’t heard, but looking back Claire could identify that moment as a jolt into adulthood; one of those small shocks that take the facts you’ve always known, like prettiness, and suddenly shove them at you in a queasy, uncomfortably close way. Thud. Things won’t ever be quite the same again.

The water was falling in steady drips through the roof, but from long practice they both knew how to tilt to one side so that it landed harmlessly between them. With all its leaks, they
knew
this car well. After nine weeks of
trying
, with everyone and everything, how nice it is, thought Laura, to settle down into the comfy, soggy car seat. How nice not to try to be clever or liberated or to know about films, but just to sit and chat to Claire. Claire’s mind and body, inner and outer workings, were as familiar to her as the dials on the dashboard and the petrol gauge, stuck since time inmemorial at well below ‘E’. Known and loved.

With a creak and a rattle the Morris climbed, painfully, the hill into Clifton and turned into the street with the shops.

‘Everything’s so beautiful,’ said Claire. ‘Even in the rain.’

The shops, being closed, faded into insignificance and allowed their lovely upper façades, tall windows and simple balconies, to state their presence down the street. Round a corner they turned and into a square.

‘Never mind the rain,’ cried Claire. ‘Let’s get out and walk.’

It was a pure pleasure to walk down the street. Up above them four storeys of golden stone faced each other across the trees whose trunks were glistening in the rain. The street was deserted. It was nice to be alone and talk about sisterly things without boring anyone else; nice, too, just to wander at will and not have to point out places of interest, as one would with anyone but a sister.

Just then they stopped. They had turned a corner and there in front of them stood a figure tugging at a cigarette machine. He was hunched over it, in his long flapping overcoat from the Army Surplus shop.

‘Wow,’ he said. ‘This thing sticks.’ The drawer shot back and he staggered, then he looked at them, pleased. He had very, very gentle eyes and a droopy moustache. Droopy hair, too. Everything drooped.

‘Goodness, this is Andy,’ Laura told Claire. ‘He does psychology like me, but he’s second year.’ He’d been at that table in the Berkeley Café; she prayed that John had told him nothing about the episode that had followed that meeting. Andy’s vague, benign look told her he hadn’t; no little spark there.

Andy looked through Laura vaguely. ‘You and your friend want to come inside or something? It’s pissing down.’

‘Well …’ Laura hesitated. He’d think they were mad, but actually they’d been enjoying their damp wander through the streets. And yet … curiosity triumphed. So did his unsuitability, with his long and matted knots of hair.

They followed the stooping figure down the street and arrived at some basement steps. Andy went down and disappeared through a door. Laura halted, struck by another thought.

‘Do you really want to?’ she whispered.

‘Yes. Why not?’

Laura had never been to Andy’s place before, but as all his conversations seemed to revolve around the subject of cannabis, she presumed that his Sundays would revolve around its consumption. The fact was, to her terrible and secret shame she’d never actually had any of the stuff. And what about Claire?

They went inside. Andy seemed to have forgotten about them and was sitting down in the middle of the room. Claire and Laura hovered. The curtains were half drawn and a light bulb was lit, as if the room couldn’t quite choose between day and night. Five or six people were sitting about on mattresses, and in the air was a damp bedsit smell mingled with a faint farmyard scent that must be It. Pot. Laura found a space and sat down.

‘Come on,’ she whispered to Claire, who suddenly looked foolish standing up there, clutching her handbag. ‘Sit down next to me.’

A girl with lots of tiny plaits came in carrying a tray of tea. ‘Oh,’ she said when she saw Laura and Claire.

‘They’ve come,’ said Andy, ‘to join us for the Sunday joint.’

‘But we’ve already eaten, thank you,’ said Claire.

Laura blushed. Someone laughed. The girl rolled large black-rimmed eyes at Claire, took in the woollen suit and proper handbag, and wordlessly squatted on the floor. She started pouring the tea. Andy had taken off his coat and was emptying the cigarettes out of their packet.

‘Well, Laura and Laura’s Friend,’ he said, ‘so you’d like to have a smoke, would you? Join the merry band.’

‘When I was fourteen,’ said Claire, ‘my father gave me twenty-five pounds not to start and I was so miserly I never did.’

Laura hid her burning face. How could anyone, even
Claire?

‘Hey, hey.’ Andy smiled at Claire, eyebrows raised. ‘Not smoke – Smoke. Grass. Dope. The good weed.’

‘Oh.’ A pause. ‘Oh, I see. Well, I don’t think I could. I can’t inhale, you see.’

Andy looked round at the others. ‘Hey, hear that? Well, Laura’s Friend,’ he said, turning to her, ‘just watch Uncle Andy. He’ll show you how.’

By now he’d taken some papers from his pocket and filled them with tobacco from the cigarettes, and something else he tapped out from a little brass box. Everyone watched. He was the priest. Now he stuck the papers together into one loose sausage. ‘A light,’ he said, and the plaits girl leant over with the holy flame.

He put the sausage to his lips; it flared; through the smoke Claire saw his eyes bulge. For a horrified moment she thought he was asphyxiating. He drew the thing away from his mouth and then, with a sudden hiss and shudder as if he’d been stabbed, his lips drew back from his teeth. It was a long hiss, exquisitely painful, his lips stretched, his eyes glazed, the veins in his neck bulging. Then suddenly he subsided; his breath was let out in a shuddering groan. He slumped down, head lolling, and proffered her the smouldering sausage.

‘Oh no,’ she cried. ‘I couldn’t, really.’

‘Hey, just try,’ he said. ‘Take it right down, deep.’

Those eyes were watching, waiting for it. Eyes all round the room. Claire quickly passed it to Laura.

‘Are you sure?’ Laura asked. She took it between her thumb and forefinger, her other fingers arched as she’d seen Andy arch his. She put it to her lips.

It burned down to her lungs; it tore, red-hot, down, and she was transfixed. Everything went black. She couldn’t breathe.

After a moment she could open her eyes, just. But still she couldn’t breathe. There was no hope of her ever breathing again. How could she, with her lungs full, her throat full, her mouth and head full?

The next hand hovered, waiting. Suddenly she could gasp. A fit of choking strangled her.

‘Good grass, right?’ said Andy. ‘Not too strong; just a gentle high.’

‘Is it?’ Claire asked Laura with interest. ‘What’s it like? Do you often smoke it?’

Andy was listening, so Laura tried to seem blasé. Difficult when she was dying, but she tried. ‘Er, sometimes.’ Why, oh why couldn’t she be as honest as Claire and admit she’d never done it? Why? Why couldn’t she be as nice as Claire? The question reeled round her head. Why? In fact, the whole room was reeling. The Eric Clapton poster on the wall buzzed and wobbled. Hell! It was just like that awful thing with John all over again, but worse this time because she had, in some way she couldn’t make out
with
her dizzy head, been disloyal to Claire.

The hissing next to her stopped. She turned to her neighbour; he was pressing his neck. Claire leant forward to look at him too. ‘Why are you doing that?’ she asked brightly.

There was a pause, then his eyes slowly opened. ‘It gets me stoneder than stoned,’ he said, then he closed his eyes again.

Enveloped in themselves, people didn’t speak. The room was heavy with smoke and concentration. Then a voice came from the opposite mattress. ‘I need jam,’ it said.

‘And why not,’ said Andy. He heaved himself up and went into the kitchen, reappearing with a loaf and some jam. ‘Let’s get into the con –, the con –, how’s it go?’

‘Conserves,’ said Claire helpfully.

‘The conserves. Yeah, who wants a jam trip?’ He cleared a space on the floor which was covered with things – ashtrays, teacups, ‘Rupert Bear Annual’ and a Sunday paper. It was open at the page about the aborigines.

‘Have you read that article?’ Claire asked Andy, pointing to it. He shook his head. ‘It’s very good.’

‘Read it, then.’ He turned round to the others. ‘Listen to a story, children.’

Claire read it. When she had finished she looked up.

‘Wow,’ came an impressed voice.

‘Yes,’ she replied, pleased. ‘It’s extraordinary, isn’t it.’

‘Wow, those ants … big green ants, really big …’

‘… with huge staring eyes …’ came another voice.

‘… and big shiny bodies, leaping through the woods …’

‘… their eyes all red and their bodies all – all green …’

‘… and pow! You’re face to face with one,’ said Andy. He started giggling. They all started giggling. ‘A mighty monster ant. And you say, hey, don’t touch me, mister monster ant, don’t woggle your long green tentacles at me …’ Giggling, Andy put a spoon into the jam and heaped it on to a piece of bread. He lifted it; the lump of jam slid off on to his jeans. ‘Whoops.’ He was shaking with giggles.

‘But don’t you see?’ Claire cried. ‘About the aborigines –?’ She stopped. They didn’t understand what it was about at all; they didn’t care.

The thing was back in her hand now; it was shorter and damper. She passed it to Laura.

‘Er, no thanks,’ said Laura, who was still fighting for breath.

She’d just noticed that the dropped ash had left round white holes in the knees of her black tights, holes the size of sixpences, widening and shrinking ones. The room still swayed to and fro, most oddly. ‘We must go,’ she said.

‘Splitting?’ Andy raised his head from the inspection of his jeans.

‘Yes,’ said Laura, longing for air. ‘Claire has to drive back to London and I have to go back to Hall.’

‘In Hall, are you? Dead place, full of straights.’

‘Oh but –’ Claire began, and stopped. She thought of Mike’s passionate voice as he read about the aborigines. This lot didn’t seem to care about anything at all. ‘I’ve met such nice people there today.’

Andy turned to Laura. ‘Well, my girl, the sooner you get out of there the better.’

‘Yes,’ said Laura casually, ‘I’m thinking of leaving next term and moving in somewhere else, so I can – you know – be myself.’

‘Laure!’ cried Claire. ‘Is that true?’

‘Oh yes.’ Though actually she’d never considered it until now.

Avoiding Claire’s eye, she got up carefully. The room still slopped backwards and forwards, but once she was outside she felt better. Night had fallen and the rain had stopped. She took a deep, deep gulp of air.

‘Do you feel high?’ Claire was inspecting her with interest.

‘No,’ she replied, truthful at last. ‘Sick.’

Laura being disinclined to talk, they walked back to the car in silence. With what pleasure had they walked down this street! But now the mood was spoilt. Passing the black railings, Laura wondered angrily Why? Why can’t I just be myself like Claire? Why do I have to try to make an impression when Claire doesn’t?

And later that night, having seen Claire off on her dark voyage, she wondered about moving out of Hall. Perhaps, if she lived alone, her character would tauten up and she would no longer find herself bending with every different person she met. Claire, in her charitable way, would call that being sympathetic, identifying with people. Not true. Even with Mike, Laura thought, nice friendly Mike, I was tilting my head at the right, thoughtful angle when he was reading that thing from the newspaper.